Hold Your Breath
by Russiada
Summary: Q loved Him. And he loved Q too, right? Is it really abuse if you don't mind it?
1. Chapter 1

He wasn't weak. He was wiry, and stubborn, and skinny, but he wasn't weak. And when Bond hit him, he felt stronger than ever.

They never described their relationship with words like "boyfriend" or "partner" or even "lover". Q loved Bond, he really did, but he'd rather die than admit it to the stony-faced agent. Q was about eighty percent certain that Bond loved him too, but when he thought about it too much, he doubted it.

Q didn't really mind the women. He knew that sometimes, on missions, Bond would have to sleep with a woman or two-and, of course, the occasional man- and it would never really get to Q. Maybe it was because Q was there. Not physically, but Bond would purposefully leave his earpiece in and on, and Q would hear every grunt and ragged breath from Bond, and every girlish moan from whatever girl he was fucking. Q listened calmly, knowing that when Bond came back, he would be Q's once again.

Nobody knew of the relationship between Q and Bond. Nobody minded that they shared a flat, as it wasn't uncommon for a handler and his agent to do so. Luckily, nobody decided to ever visit the seemingly unpleasant duo, because the two didn't exactly try to hide their…arrangement.

The first two months were basically just filled with sex, with very little talking. Bond had spotted his prey early on, and the minute he finally got the quartermaster to look up from his laptop and away from his work, he pounced and had Q bent over his desk with very little words.

It took awhile for the both of them to open up to each other. But something just clicked when Q told Bond his real name, and suddenly the two were inseparable. Q was Bond's outlet, his way of pushing through. After a mission, Bond would be in a state of cold fury, his bloodlust never satisfied with the lives he had taken. He'd skip debriefing and medical, and he would go straight to Q-branch. His gaze would be straight and unwavering, his cold, blue eyes burning straight through to an enemy that Q couldn't see. Unable to properly express himself, Bond and Q would usually just revert to a bout of rough sex, that left hand-shaped bruises on Q's hips and a sore rump for days.

Bond was also Q's sole means of survival. Q would spend days at a time at work or on his laptop, the blue glow giving his face a gaunt expression. He would turn into the machine he was working on, and Q would be absolutely lost to the world. At these times, Bond would silently pull him away from his nest of numbers and to the bedroom for some much needed rest. Q would often wake the following afternoon with a slight headache and a recently warm hollow in the mattress next to him.

The abuse started when the two men interacted with each other when they were most unstable. Q had been sent home after a four day period of nonstop hacking and inventing, and he was sitting on the hard, wooden chair at the kitchen table with his laptop open and a cup of lukewarm tea to his right. His mind was once again lost in the wide world of his genius, his head filled with codes and numbers and letters, and his hands had slowed their furious typing in favor of a calm caress to the worn keys on his keyboard.

The door opened with a slam, and Bond stalked in, eyes blackened and skin looking sickly. He had been gone for a grueling week and a half, with long vigils of no sleep. He dropped his jacket and his gun holster on the floor next to his shoes, and nearly collapsed in the wooden chair next to Q. He clasped his hands, as if in prayer, and leaned his elbows on the table. He looked old and worn, a man tethered to post and left to die. The sounds of his arrival woke Q from his trance, and he blinked, but didn't stop his typing and decoding. He smelled the expensive perfume that clung to Bond, and he presumed that it must have happened earlier that day, because the scent was still strong. A sideways glance to his wrinkled suit confirmed his observations. Q was still too deep and stiff with his nonstop work, so he didn't let the petty feelings of jealousy overwhelm him.

The only sound in the kitchen was the soft clicking and clacking of Q's lithe fingers on his laptop.

Bond's eyes flew up, and when he caught Q's gaze Q faltered in his work. Bond's icy blue eyes were seething, and this time, the furious look was directed towards him, rather than a distant foe, as Q had come to expect.

And out of nowhere a too-strong hand clamped down on his pale forearm and he was thrown to the ground in one swift motion. In his robotic state of mind, Q didn't even feel it, but he was still shocked when he was suddenly looking at the ceiling, instead of the glowing blue screen of his laptop. Still in shock, Q merely laid there as Bond haunted over his form to the bedroom, and it wasn't long until Q heard the sound of the bathroom door being shut.

Q let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding when he heard the shower start up. He didn't feel hurt, or sad, or even in pain. He sat up and lifted his hand out of the sharp puddle of tea and teacup, and methodically stood up and threw a dishcloth over the mess. His thoughts, still riddled with codes and numbers, tried to make sense of it all. Had he done something wrong? Had Bond failed his mission, had he not been able to obtain the information he was sent to retrieve? Still thinking, he walked to the bedroom and stripped himself of his clothes, leaving a pair of Bond's pajama pants on the bed.

Q slipped into the steam-filled bathroom, and made his way to the bath and shower combo, sliding open the glass shower door and stepping inside with Bond. With a few simple hand movements, he hoped to ask Bond what had happened without words, and so he slipped his bony-fingered hand across Bond's slick bicep, effectively turning the agent his way. But before he could even think, he was roughly shoved out of the shower's still-open door and onto the cold, tiled floor of the bathroom.

This time, Q felt it. His should ached where he had been grabbed, and the back if his thighs were bruising from where they had hit the edge of the bathtub. He didn't lay on the floor and think it through as he did last time, but instead scrambled up off of the floor and out of the bathroom.

His mind was still hazy from his work, and he looked frantically around the bedroom, as if the answer would just appear out of nowhere. He went to the bed and mechanically put on the sweatpants. His heart was beating in his ears, and his skin stung where he had fallen.

Bond emerged from the bathroom, wearing another pair of sweatpants and a tight-lipped frown. A vein was throbbing on his forehead. This was unlike other rages that Q had witnessed; this one was sharp and hard, and- violent.

Too quickly Bond had Q pinned against the wall with one strong hand pressed to Q's bare chest. His breathing was heavy, and Q was struggling to breathe at all. At this point he could see every detail of Bond's furious face. His glasses were sitting uselessly on the bedside table, so if Bond moved away, he would be nothing but a blur.

"James-" Q started.

"_Shut up_," Bond growled, his voice low. Q spluttered, as bond wrapped a hand around his throat, and at that moment Q knew that if Bond wanted to kill him, then he was already dead.

After what felt like forever, Q was released and he slid to the floor, his legs jelly and his mind a mess. Bond stood in front of him, breathing heavily and shaking uncontrollably. In a final fit of fury he kicked Q's side with a rock-hard foot. He groaned and curled in on himself, his arms instinctively going up around his head.

What was odd about this encounter was that Q felt so _alive_. And it was sick, it really was, but the pain in his head and his throat and the aching of his bruised ribs and arm made him actually feel something for the first time since he and Bond had fucked on the night before he left for the mission.

On the other side of the spectrum, Bond was feeling like a black hole, and for the first time since their time together before the mission, he didn't feel restricted. He felt pure, unadulterated fury. Not for Q, oh God, not for Q at all. It was all directed towards the enemies of the crown, and to the people he had fought for the last couple of missions. His head pounded with guilt, and he had never felt so much regret.

He had hurt the one thing that was precious to him.


	2. Chapter 2

The two continued that way for a long time. Bond would come home, filled with rage after a mission, and Q would have to find new and creative ways of hiding his bruises. He wasn't ashamed, but he didn't need anyone to try and "solve" his problems. He didn't even want them to, at first. Q had found himself in some twisted situation that vaguely resembled Stockholm syndrome. After that first night, when Bond shoved him and hit him, he was surprised by the sense of pure _feeling _he had developed. He was no masochist, and he took no actual pleasure from the violence, but after such a lost and lonely period while his sole companion was away, Q felt as though feeling the overwhelming sensation of being hit and hurt was better that the bitter emptiness he was left with otherwise.

The rest of Q-branch noticed nothing- not that Q wanted them to, of course. They presumed that the blackened eyes and sallow cheeks were from too little sleep. Q lowered the temperature in his office to as cold as he could manage, and began wearing too-big sweaters and scarves to hide the finger-shaped welts around his throat and arms. Q thought it was strange that the most clever and quick witted people in the country were fooled by such tricks. But that was just another reason to never trust them; they overlooked the little things. Of course, they had yet to notice his relationship with Bond in the first place, even though at this point they didn't even try to hide it.

Bond and Q never discussed the enraged episodes that happened after nearly every mission, although they were both keenly aware of the scenes where it happened. At times Bond seemed almost remorseful, and by the following day Q had internally forgiven the older man for every sharp hit, and every forceful push. Sometimes Q would wake up, his head aching, to Bond tenderly stroking the smooth skin he had blemished with his unyielding fists.

Q's state of mind was taking a worse toll than his body. He had fallen into a vicious cycle; he would feel empty and numb, until his agent would return from the field, and then he would come back to the world of the living when Bond would lay his first strike. And after a complete loathing of himself, he would reluctantly fall back into the arms that could easily crush him, and things would return to a broken reality, where everything was as close to normal as they could be. Bond would once again be somewhat tame, acting as though Q was a precious china doll, and could break at any moment. And as time went on, Q felt chipped and ragged, and only whole again when bond either beat him savagely or warm his bed with his seductive nature.

And then, of course, Bond would leave again.

After some four months had past, Q had reached a point where he was so numb, so unfeeling, that the only thing that brought him back to life was the sharp sting of Bond's calloused hand. Q hated this pathetic creature he had become with all of his might, but he held tight to it, like an addict dealing with his only pleasure; a substance that was slowly killing him.

And then one night, Bond came home angry again. And this night was the first he ever spilt Q's blood.

It wasn't a huge breakthrough, but a shattered teacup was in a puddle on the kitchen floor, and Q was pinned to the linoleum by Bond's leather shod foot. He vaguely felt the broken pieces digging into his back. The pain wasn't dull like the bruises littering his ribs, but sharp and new. And after Bond stalked to the bedroom, it became the very first night that Q wept. While the beatings had been an awakening from the endless sleep that was his life, it now made him want to only recede inside of himself and return to the blurry emptiness of his work-life. He felt sick with himself, and he felt used, mottled, ruined.

In a half-mad scurry, and blood streaking down his bare back, he sat at the table, in front of his laptop once again. He escaped into a world of numbers and codes, without Bond or hurt or pain, but without his true self, too. He didn't even try to staunch the bleeding.

It must have been hours, but to Q, it felt like mere seconds later that Bond slipped quietly into the kitchen, and he flinched when he felt the strong, warm hands fluttering about the wounds on his back. He let Bond fix him. He let Bond clean and bandage the cuts on his back, and he even let him carry him gently to their shared bedroom. He allowed Bond to wipe the tears from his face, and he didn't protest when Bond wrapped his arms around him in a protective embrace. He simply fisted his hands into the back of Bond's tee shirt, shut his eyes tightly, and forgave the broken man next to him with every inch of his being.

Q hadn't realized when he fell asleep, but when he woke up he was still in Bond's arms. Bond changed his bandages and helped him clean up in the bathroom. While Q dressed in a pair of Bond's sweatpants and an overly-large sweater, Bond called MI6 and told Eve that Q was ill, and Bond was staying to take care of him. Q was surprised by Bond's decision to stay. Surely a double-oh agent, a famous one at that, had something more important to do than play nurse to his broken down quartermaster.

That day was another first- it was the first day they spent entirely in bed. Well, the first time they spent an entire day in bed, _not_ having sex.

They were together physically, but mentally they were in entirely different worlds. Q was lost inside of himself, struggling to find a reason to not stay hidden forever. Bond was his anchor, he kept telling himself, and Bond needed him. He needed him for his body, yes, sexually and as a punching bag, but he also needed his mind. His heart, even. Q was numb in the sanctuary of walls he had built around himself, and every once in a while he would shift his back against his agent, just to feel the still-sharp pain of the healing cuts on his back.

Bond was at war with himself, a million miles away. He loathed the abusive and cowardly monster he had become, but he just couldn't stop himself. He tried, but he knew that every time he hit Q, every time he bruised his sides of crushed his wrist, Q would understand, would know, would…forgive. And Bond lived for Q's forgiveness. But something else inside of him wanted to see him hurt. A creature deep in his heart, that was bloodthirsty and never sated with anything but Q. Bond fought that monster with all he had, but after a mission, he just didn't have it in him.

And then in the morning he would realize what he had done in his hazy, bloodlust. And he was disgusted by it.

After six months and fourteen days of abuse, it was snowing. A blizzard clogged up the streets and when Q couldn't take the hitting and hurting any longer, he left the flat in a craze.

And then, out of nowhere, Q was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

The night had started like the many others Q had been through. Q had returned from a long stretch of being at work, and was on the verge of cracking. Lately he had been eating less and less and his prominent cheekbones and too-sharp collarbone showed it to anybody who could get a close enough look at the damaged quartermaster. He was pale and gaunt, and he looked almost sickly with his vacant expression and sunken eyes.

Once again, the faithful Ms. Moneypenny demanded he go home and rest. After all, there was to be a huge snowstorm later that night.

Q lived only a few blocks away from Headquarters, so he bundled up in his black fleece coat and a scarf that smelled like bond. The emptiness inside of him was flat and unyielding, but it didn't stop him from feeling the chill in the air. He dug his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and leaned in against the wind, his leather messenger bag bumping against his thigh with every step.

He fumbled with the keys to his flat, and it took a few moments for him to warm up his hands by breath alone to unfreeze his long, slender fingers.

He dumped his coat on the floor, where Bond had thrown his suit jacket all those months ago, and quickly changed into a soft cotton t-shirt with short sleeves. The building was always a tad too warm anyway, despite the chill outside.

He began preparing for the ritual that he had endured for the last few months. Bond was due to return home at any moment, and after debriefing with M, he would return to the flat and to Q. Q didn't expect anything less than a full-blown rage, and so he readied himself with his laptop up and out on the kitchen table and a kettle of water on the stove, ready for a cup of tea that would likely be cold by the time he remembered to drink it.

Q had just put the steaming kettle on a cool burner to the right of the hot one when the door slammed open, and Bond stalked in.

And without any warnings, Bond's arms were suddenly and inexplicably wrapped around Q in a too-tight embrace that smelled of expensive cologne and stale blood. Bond must have felt Q stiffen in surprise, because he pulled Q in closer and bent his head into the younger's neck, in a strange sort of nuzzle.

Q broke into a light sweat, and began shaking. This wasn't what he had expected at all, and it was seriously throwing him off. Where was the anger? The pure, unadulterated rage? The violence?

Bond had left the door gaping open, and the orange-yellow light of the outside street flooded in.

They stood like that for a beat, with Q trembling softly and Bond clutching harshly at the body pressed so close to his. But Q was having none of it. His logic-sounding, overworked mind couldn't handle something so drastically different than what he was used to, and in a mad burst he wedges his arms against Bond's chest and shoved the much-stronger man with as much force as he could muster. Typically, Q would never be able to move the mountain that was Bond, but because of the sheer surprise of the action, Bond was moved back a step.

Bond's eyes were wild when they met Q's, and frantically, the quartermaster backed up and tumbled over the pulled out chair he had vacated to move the shrilly singing kettle. Shooting a pained and terrified look at Bond, he was met with a magnificent and darkened look that made him immediately regret his action. Bond stepped over to him and knelt in one swift movement, and fisted his right hand into Q's collar.

Jerked into s sitting position by his agent, Q felt the full force of Bond's angry fist hit his face. He had mainly been hit in the eye, and was silently thankful of Bond's avoidance of his nose. The hit had been hard and quick, and he didn't mind the black eye.

Bond stood and turned, likely going to the bedroom, when Q saw the open, bloody gash on Bond's upper back. He choked on a tiny sob, and scrambled up in such a hurry that his head rushed dramatically from the hit that he had just taken. Without a single thought he reached out to bond, a tender hand on his shoulder.

Both Bond and Q had been standing in just the wrong place at the wrong time. At the same moment a gust of wind rattled the still-open door on its hinges, Bond whipped back, his clenched fist leading in a path of pure destruction.

The still steaming kettle was knocked into Q, scalding-hot water pouring all over his forearm before the kettle clattered to the floor. Q let out a sound that was a mix of a surprised shout and a pained yelp. His left arm felt like it had been caught on fire, the white-hot pain shooting through his system.

Startled, Bond instinctively flinched away from the water, as Q dropped to his knees just shy of the molten puddle. He clutched his arms to his chest, howling in pain, tears streaking down his face at a maddening pace.

Bond started, throwing a dishrag across the puddle and falling to his knees as well, Q's yelping and sobbing giving him a good slap in the face. He pulled his quartermaster up, herding him to the sink and running cool water over the burn. Q's violent sobs slowed into hiccups into his agent's chest.

After Bond had applied his miniscule medical knowledge to the burn on Q's arm, Q dried his face and stepped away from the agent. Stumbling to the sill ajar door, he yanked on his boots and coat, giving Bond a long, tired look.

"I'll be back in a bit," were the last words Q spoke to Bond before he stepped out of the flat and shut the door behind him.

Bond hurried to the door, but couldn't bring himself to turn the doorknob. His mind was reeling, and he was cursing himself for letting it get this out of hand. He sat at his place at the table and put his head in his hands, feeling a million years old.

An hour past, and the wind began howling. He could see the blizzard blow around the sky and with each passing minute he became more and more worried about Q. Where was he? Had he left for good? No, that couldn't happen. Q's family was…gone, he couldn't have stayed with any relatives. Or friends, for that matter. No, Q pretty much only spoke to Bond.

And it was Bond's responsibility to find him, so he set out into the winter storm.

He roamed the streets for six and a half hours, searching and calling. He was panicking after about the first two. He shoved his way through the snow and wind to headquarters, but nobody was there.

He was frantically trying to find his lost quartermaster, but the brown-eyed man Bond had grown to adore was nowhere to be seen. He called Moneypenny. And Tanner, and every last damn assistant that worked even remotely close to Q, but it was no use at all.

So he called M.

"It's Bond. Q went out into the storm and I can't find him anywhere," his voice was as calm as it always was, and echoed eerily in the flat's kitchen. Snow littered the shiny linoleum floor. The kettle was still on the ground.

"_Why the hell would Q do that? That boy must be brighter than that, we pay him for it!"_

"Well," Bond chose his words carefully, "We got into a bit of a tiff."

_"You got into a fight with Q?_ _What, that playful banter can't be that harmful."_

"Not that kind of fight, M,"

"_Well refrain from using the boy as a punching bag-"_

Bond flinched.

"_But-actually- we just received a distress call from around your area. Hold on, I'll check the code,"_

Bond held his breath.

"_Oh –damn- it was Q. Q sent a distress signal, Bond, you are to report immediately, this could get ugly." _


	4. Chapter 4

"Then why don't you trace the signal you received _yesterday?_" Bond was all but growling at M, his eyes stony and his face an icy mask. His back still ached from the gash he had received on the mission leading up to his encounter with Q.

"It's not that simple, double-oh seven," M replied. He was seated behind the desk that the old M had been stationed, rubbing his temples in frustration.

Bond, on the other hand, was standing in a mercenary's stance; arms folded and feet shoulder-width apart.

"Q is a very clever man," M paused, contemplating, "If he wanted to disappear, there would be nothing we could do to stop him."

"He wouldn't," Bond said, "Q would never run away without giving a reason. If he had a problem he would make sure the whole world knew about it." A little white lie couldn't hurt.

"As far as you know, agent," M said, without looking up, "Nobody knows what goes on in that genius head of his. He could have all sorts of problems that we don't know about."

Bond remained silent, because he _did_ know. Bond knew Q's passions, his habits, and even the little pet peeves that drove him to wit's end. Q said that he would be back, and by God, he would. He had to.

"Has Q been acting any, differently, lately?" M said, his brows furrowing, "Any change in behavior?"

And suddenly Bond couldn't breathe. He wasn't blind, and he definitely wasn't stupid. He saw the dark circles under Q's eyes, his sudden silence over the earpiece. How he didn't banter back in forth like he used to, how he would drift off into a world completely unknown to anybody but Q himself. No doubt the others in Q branch noticed these things too, but Bond saw more. Bond saw what lay under the too-large sweaters and Bond saw past the excuses and reasons Q had for his sudden weight loss and the like.

Bond saw the ribs jutting out of his chest, and felt the sharp hipbones that protruded from his body. Bond was there for those sleepless nights when Q got lost in the world of numbers, and Bond was there for the nights he slept so solidly it would take a hurricane to wake him up. So fragile, and Bond was cradling his life while also destroying it.

"Maybe we should ask the rest of Q branch, surely they should have noticed if something was amiss." Avoiding the question. Bond would tell them the truth when it came down to it, but if he could push things away for a few moments longer, then he would do just that.

"By doing that we'd send all of those pesky assistants of his into an all-out panic," M said, "We could try Ms. Moneypenny, though. She speaks with him regularly.

"Right," Bond said, his posture weighing down, making him feel a hundred years old.

By the time Eve had been debriefed by M, with absolutely no help from Bond, she was sitting in the chair opposite M with tears in her eyes. She was worried about Q, someone she had grown quite fond of and liked.

"I noticed things, about Q, that were small," she said, "I thought it was just his work ethic, his inability to leave a task unfinished."

"What do you mean?" M asked. Bond wandered over to the window, lips pursed. Every word she said was a battle. He knew it was happening, but when it was said out loud it seemed so very real, and unchanging. He had ruined his precious Q. He had grown to care for the young man, a true and genuine attraction that had nothing to do with sex. And he had broken him, beat him, and savagely hold him close and accept every ounce of forgiveness that he did not deserve.

"Sometimes," Eve continued, "I'd leave work, and Q would be sitting in the lab or at his computer. I'd return later the next day, and sometimes even two days would pass, and there he'd be. The same position I left him in, and most of the time wearing the same clothes."

"So he was overworking himself," M said, pressing Eve further, "nothing new in that." But he didn't get it. Bond looked at Eve's reflection, suddenly violently jealous of her constant presence around Q.

"I saw him have a black eye a few times. Sometimes two, but I could never tell the difference from a hit and a couple days without rest. I'd make him go home weekly, to rest." She finished, sadly. Bond had no right to be protective of him. Bond didn't deserve Q's constant presence, didn't deserve his loving glances or his playful words.

"Oh, one more thing," she added, "I only saw this once and I wasn't really sure about it, but I think I once saw bruises. On his neck, of all places."

Sighing, Bond strolled over to the chair to the right of Eve, and collapsed into it, saying, "We didn't exactly hide it, you've no one to blame but yourselves, really." But nobody forced his hand to strike Q. The fault was his, and his alone.

He could practically hear the gears turning in M's mind.

"Well then, I suppose you know a bit more than you were letting on, Bond," M stated with an air of surprise.

"I don't understand," Eve said, "What were you hiding?"

"Q and I," Bond said, "we were in," he struggled for words, "a relationship, of sorts. Intimate. Difficult." Abusive, too.

Ms. Moneypenny was shocked, but after the initial statement had sunk in, she put together the information she had, "Oh, God," remembered the bruises, no doubt, "Oh _God!"_

• • •

The first thing that Q notice when he came to was that the nice, silver wristwatch that Bond had bought him was missing. _Damn, _he thought, _I had a tracker in that watch, how the hell am I supposed to tell time?_

His hands were bound behind him, and his ankles were bound as well. His coat was missing, and to Q's misfortune, so were his boots. A thick bag made of some scratchy material was around his head, and his hair was plastered to his forehead by the sweat that had accumulated because of the humid, stale air he was breathing. His mouth was gagged with some sort of fabric, and the edges of his mouth were being rubbed raw by the material.

He lay on a cold floor, the freezing stone wrenching the heat out of his sore limbs. His head ached, and his legs were covered in gooseflesh, the only thing separating them from the floor being a pair of Bond's sweatpants, the waist rolled to fit better.

And with a sharp slap to his brain, memories flooded into his mind. His fight with Bond, the swollen eye, the burn mark on his arm. It still stung, and being pressed awkwardly to his side really didn't help.

He lolled his head, a muffled groan escaping his gagged mouth at the sensation of a violent head-rush. To top it all off, he had a concussion!

Suddenly, he heard a soft clicking sound –the sound of a gun being loaded- and he froze where he was lying.

"Relax," came a smooth and masculine voice, low, with a hint of an edge, like a fine knife on paper," I _probably _won't shoot you."

There was humor in his voice, a hint of arrogance. Q was yanked into a sitting position, his head jerking forward painfully, and his breath catching in his throat.

"Such a shame, isn't it?" said the voice, circling around Q, "That such a _clever_ little doll like you," a hand was placed on his head, "would be with a bloodthirsty," a pat, "monster like that _James Bond."_


	5. Chapter 5

The talk between Bond, Eve, and M lasted a full three hours. Bond estimated that at least half of that was just the three sitting in silence while M and Eve tried to digest what they had been told. And bond had told them everything. He sat, looking at his hands, and told them about what he and Q were together. He told them about the abuse. The hitting, the shoving, everything down to the last fight they had before Q disappeared.

And when they asked him why, Bond was at a loss. Was it the stress of the missions? No, he didn't think so. An insatiable urge to hurt? No, that couldn't be it. He wanted to protect Q. Right?

No, Bond knew what it was. It was the guilt. Years and years of nonstop field action, having to kill with a straight face. Slaughtering anyone who got in his way. It was the guilt of sleeping with women and watching them get killed off, one by one. It was the guilt of sleeping with women when he truly only wanted to be with Q, not that he'd ever say so. But moreover, the guilt of Q's constant forgiveness, his damn _understanding_ of everything Bond was. He felt naked around Q, and it felt like Q _knew_ about every last life he took, every lie he told, every family he had to destroy for Queen and Country.

But of course, Bond said none of this. Instead, he told them about the good times with Q. The relationship that grew out of curiosity and lust. He told them about the times that Bond would peel Q from his laptop and sit in silence with him while the quartermaster rested his worried mind, Bond told them about when Bond would have the weight on the world on his shoulders, and Q would be there with a small smile and comforting touch. Bond danced around words like _affection _and dare he even say lo-

"I never even guessed, double-oh seven," Eve said softly. M remained silent.

Bond loathed having to speak to them in such a manner. He hated pouring his heart out into people that weren't Q, but in order to find his handler they would need every ounce of knowledge that they could get their hands on. He especially hated sharing his memories of Q, the good and the bad, because he selfishly wanted to hold them close and never let anyone near.

"Go home, Double-oh seven," M said suddenly, "clean up, rest, and we'll call you the moment we get a lead."

"No," Bond started, "I need to help, I got Q into this and by God I'll-"

"James," Eve said, a touch of sympathy laced in her voice, "You've helped as much as you can."

He really did hate hearing his name fall from the lips of someone other than Q.

So he did go home. Not because they told him to, of course, but because he truly would only be in the way should he have stayed at MI6.

He would find Q. As soon as they got a lead, he would be hot on their trails, whoever it was that had taken him. Because after all, that had to be what happened. Q wouldn't run away from him. Right? But what if-

His thoughts were cut short as he bumped into a blonde fellow no his way downstairs while Bond was going up. The man hurried away, probably intimidated by Bond's wintery gaze, before Bond could even apologize.

The kitchen was so empty without his beloved quartermaster sitting creakily at the kitchen table. Sitting in the spot Q usually sat in, he noticed a permanent ring on the table from where Q would always put his mug.

That night Bond fell asleep at the table, because he didn't think he could stand smelling Q in his Bed. His phone, two bottles of scotch, and Q's scrabble mug were the only things at his side.

• • •

Q was absolutely miserable. His mouth was full of blood and bile, soaking the gag that tore at the sides of his mouth. The chafing had become unbearable, he tried as hard as he could to not move his wrists or ankles. The bag around his head was full of hot, damp air, and every breath was a struggle.

To his shame, he succumbed to tears about halfway through the beating he had received. They kicked him in the ribs, punched him around the head, pushed him hard into the cement floor below.

The man with the smooth voice had asked him what he knew about Bond, and Q had answered with a smart-ass retort that screamed refusal. The man laughed, and from the sound of it, left the room. That's when the beatings began. Apparently, the original captor had some sort of minions or something, and evidently these minions were the brawn to the original man's brains.

Q was pretty sure that the man left before his minions started beating him. A good kick in the already-bruised head made everything a little bit fuzzy.

They left after what seemed like a million years, and Q was left in a silent room, where his heavy breathing was deafening and the unbearably sour taste of the inside of his mouth made him want to throw up. But he couldn't, and that frustrated him in a fevered frenzy.

The sound of the door opening made Q, who was curled up as much as he could manage on the floor, tense up, expecting a few blows.

Without warning he was pulled gently into a sitting position, and with the tender touch, Q thought that _Bond! I'm saved, I can go home-_

"Now how do you feel about now, sweetheart?" His captor, the one that had asked about Bond, chuckled. Seemingly only a few feet away.

The bag around his head was ripped off suddenly, bright light slapping Q full in the face. He squinted, instinctively worming his way backward once he saw his captor in front of him. His hair was a halo of golden curls, his broad smiling widening his face. His nose was sharp, but not as sharp as his chin. He had bright green eyes that glimmered with madness.

His surroundings were much cleaner than expected, with a few metal shelves lining the walls and a steel door baring his exit.

His captor was kneeling in front of him, and had Q not been looking at him with the pain of a broken rib sharp in his side, he would have seemed charming, even handsome.

"There now, I can see that pretty little face of yours, how about we clean up a bit?" the man leaned backward for a moment, bracing himself on one hand, and pulled two water bottles and a bowl from a duffel the was a few steps away from where Q was huddled.

Putting his supplies down he leaned close to Q's face, untying Q's gag from behind. The minute his mouth was free, Q spat a large glob of spit and mucus right into his captor's face, smearing his cheek with blood.

But to Q's honest surprise, his captor simply closed his eyes, reaching for the duffel and pulling out a towel.

"Now _that,"_ he said, wiping his face "was not very polite. Surely MI6 had taught you better than that. Q had expected a hit, or at least a threat, but instead his captor simply plopped himself down next to Q, folding the towel in half and wiping at Q's grimy face with the clean side.

Q watched in a speechless amazement, as the man, who surely ordered him to be savagely beaten, filled the bowl with water from one of the bottles, and raised it to Q's lips.

"Don't swallow the water, love, we need to rid that appealing little mouth of yours of all that blood. I do want you to look your best, after all," he said. Q became completely overwhelmed with exhaustion, thinking _why the hell not?_ And rinsing his mouth of the sour taste. This wouldn't help the man's cause after all, right? He would never betray his agent or his country.

"There we go," sighed the man, "Now we can truly get down to business. Now, what _exactly_ are you to our favorite little double-oh agent?"

And just like that, the feeling to throw up again was back.


End file.
